Just Like Him
by CreatorsOfWorlds
Summary: An old Uchiha saying: a father is to his eldest son both a curse and a blessing. Itachi, Madara and Kagami.


_A/N - A study of three very different fathers and their eldest sons. Technically Madara's should have come first, and then Kagami's, and then Itachi's, but apparently art comes before order in this case._

_I finally rewrote Kagami's part, and feel a bit happier with it, and it's occurred to me that if I'm going to repost any more of the Uchiha oneshots separately, I might have to list them in order on my profile so that readers don't get confused. Or I could just repost them as a multi-fic again, though I'm not sure I like the idea of taking them down and putting them up again… we'll have to see. I'd be open to suggestions.  
_

_**Warning**__: Rating for implied incest in the Kagami part. When I write Uchiha, I tend to write dark. Also, headcanon galore._

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_Disclaimer__ - I do not own them, I just spend time writing about them. _

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_**Just like him**_

_**o**_

_Every father should remember that one day, his son will follow his example instead of his advice._

_- Charles F. Kettering_

**_o_**

Itachi was his father's son.

A youngster of six when he started the Academy, solemn-faced and direct, with manners a generation too old for his years, and heavy dark bangs that nearly fell into his eyes. Polite and formal to a fault. Distant. Kind, in a way that didn't want you to think it was. Small shoulders set in a straight line that spoke of a long and honorable military heritage.

He was unfailingly punctual, in a way almost disturbing for a boy of his age, and turned in neatly written papers with the same ease he displayed performing his _katas_. It might have been contemptuous if it had not been so terribly in earnest.

His academy teacher had to blink, sometimes, when he saw the dark head bent over his papers, and remind himself that it was not twenty years ago, that it was not Uchiha Fugaku occupying the seat three across and four down.

And yet, all that had been rock-steady _solidness_ in Fugaku was fragility in Itachi, like the string of a shamisen pulled too tight. Sometimes, watching the fire in his eyes and the bird-quickness of his thin body, it was clear that the soul was too strong for its vessel, that there was always the danger of flesh and blood giving way and burning out under the stress of his too-mature mind and thoughts.

Still, he had all his father's driving strength and incredible stamina of will, all his unmoving stubborness once he had decided for himself what he should do. He had inherited all his father's talent and genius, even if it was clear that for him, it was not the brilliant kind of joy, the fierce delight that learning had been for a younger Fugaku.

In Itachi's eyes, this, as everything else, was defined by his duty, and was a labor of love. For him, the true success was not in the mastering of the jutsu or technique, it was in the smile his mother gave him when he brought her his report card, and above all else it was the approval in his father's eyes. The weight of his hand on Itachi's shoulder, and the look which for one moment made him his father's equal - both Uchiha, both men, both protectors of their family - was heaven and more than that to the boy.

He was his father's son, there was no doubt of it. And if sometimes, the dreaminess and wonder that was uniquely his crept up on him for a time - the sensitivity to beauty that sent his fingers threading through starry violet flowers, the need, sometimes, to take words and set them down on paper in certain forms, even though poetry was something that the world had decided belonged to samurai, and was nothing that a decent shinobi should be spending his time with - well, a few moments stolen in a wayside field were easily covered up by moving faster on the way back, and folded papers were easily slipped into drawers and kept hidden from sight.

Itachi set his eyes on the crest emblazoned over the doors of the police HQ, and told himself that one day he would make his father proud.

This too, was a labor of love.

* * *

Madara was his father's son.

From the time he could unsteadily toddle across the floor, he followed Uchiha Soichi with an unwavering devotion. He listened eagerly to the rumble of his voice, the only thing which could quiet him when he was hurt or sick; he would sit near him for hours, not daring to touch him unless he was invited, but contented to stay still and watch, with large eyes, the god of his small world.

And that is perhaps the truest way to describe the high place he held in Madara's heart. The boy loved his brother, and adored his mother. He worshipped his father.

It is not so difficult to understand. Ever since he was old enough to understand the words which made them up, it was stories of his father that he heard from his Clan, and every other Clan they came across. Madara was well known among the shinobi even at a time when he could barely hold a kunai in his hand, by the simple fact of who had sired him.

It was his father who had protected him from death more times than he could remember, when he was small; his father who swung him up in his hands, high enough that he felt part of the sky; his father who taught him how to control wind and fire and how to understand the minds of the men who followed him.

Men have been venerated, declared spirits and gods and heroes of legend, for far less.

One day, Madara stood in front of the remains of a funeral pyre in the drizzling, whining rain, his hands covered with mud and the taste of blood in his mouth. He was still his father's son, and so the tears that leaked from his eyes were wrung by pain, and not grief.

He bowed, hands by his sides as he had been taught, deep enough that his hair fell around his face, and held the position long enough for the sadness in his mouth to change to bitterness and anger.

Then he straightened, and turned away. He had a Clan to fight for, and this, like everything else, would be in his father's name.

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Kagami was his father's son.

This simple fact was a heavy enough weight to bear that at times he considered that it might be worth it to just kill the man and be finished with it. He always reconsidered, though, when he remembered that death would change nothing. Uchiha Kaito would still be his father, and it would only give his spirit leave to watch over his son, seeking to influence him even from the afterlife.

Kagami had a horror of the dead. He already hated his father, he had no wish to give himself yet another reason to fear him.

He settled for good enough and tried to ignore the slow burn of his father's gaze. It followed him everywhere, burdened him with the weight of its adoration, reminded him of the sickening, weary repition of _proud of you, so beautiful, such a clever boy, my special son, my love…_

Sometimes Kagami locked himself in his room and shrieked in frustration at his mirror until the voice his father praised so much was hoarse, and he was left bent over on the floor, shaking and laughing to himself in terrible cracked giggles.

It was just too easy to manipulate Kaito, and at the same time such a terribly dangerous game. He was lovesick, infatuated with his son's quicksilver mind and clever tongue, with the motion of his hands and body and with the resemblance Kagami held to Kaito's own long-dead brother. Yet he was also the head of the Uchiha, strict and unyielding when it came to matters of custom and law, and there had been times - too many of them for Kagami to truly be at ease - when even his beloved eldest son had felt his anger, usually because of some action or thoughtless word that, in Kaito's eyes, threatened the future of the Clan.

In Kagami's opinion - typical teenage rebellion mixed with a psychotic, long-burning resentment stemming from the way his mother and father had always used him as a pawn in their long-standing battle with each other - the Clan could go to Hell.

He took refuge in his team, gladly taking part in the longer exercises which Tobirama-sensei put Kagami, Torifu and Danzo through, which sometimes required them to be away from home for days at a time; glowed with pride when the days of the First War began and Tobirama told him that he was an invaluable asset to the newly created War Hawks, words that meant more to him than any sickly-sweet compliment Kaito had ever given him.

Kaito grew jealous after a time; and Kagami had to reassure, apologize, smoothly explain that he was only keeping himself in Tobirama's good graces for the good of the Uchiha. That he'd never thought, never even imagined, that anybody could take Kaito's place. That he'd never thought of Tobirama as a father - the kind of father that his stupid life and his stupid Clan had cheated him of.

In a way, he was telling the truth.

Kagami was Kaito's son, and he knew that nothing would ever change that.

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_I am but a poor writer struggling through Camp NaNo, and reviews would make me very happy._


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